


ghosts of perdition (flavors of the truth)

by thesockhop



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, Horror, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesockhop/pseuds/thesockhop
Summary: Tony doesn’t give him the suit back.Peter didn’t expect him to, honestly. He’s just a high school kid, one that turned down becoming an Avenger- hechoseto stay the friendly neighborhood Spiderman.





	ghosts of perdition (flavors of the truth)

**Author's Note:**

> this diverges at the end of homecoming and thus there's some pretty huge offpage changes to endgame and ffh, this fic ended up both darker and lighter than i expected so uh there's that

Tony doesn’t give him the suit back. 

Peter didn’t expect him to, honestly. He’s just a high school kid, one that turned down becoming an Avenger- he _chose_ to stay the friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Mr. Stark has better things to do than try and change a teenager’s mind. So what, there’s a tech downgrade, he can deal with it. He might miss having Karen around when he’s patrolling, like a lot, but he doesn’t need the ai. 

He has his own web-shooters, and while they don’t have a million different combinations, they do the job. And he has been tinkering with them a bit, sensible upgrades to make it harder for bad guys to remove them and more storage for webbing. 

Peter’s doing just fine dammit. 

(He winces at the curse, May’s voice popping up in his head, and yeah, he should be heading home.)

-

The rest of freshman year passes fast, sophomore and junior and senior even faster. He’s on the edge of graduating, a real adult now, age-wise anyways, even if he doesn’t feel it. Every day is the same- school, upgrading Spiderman, patrolling, homework, sleep, repeat. Petty crime has gone down, and while he doesn’t take all the credit, he is proud. His neighborhood is doing well. 

The rest of the world isn’t. 

There was a huge fight with Thanos, and Peter doesn’t know more than the next person, but he does know how many heroes died saving the world. Mr. Stark, Captain America, Black Widow, the Falcon, the Hulk, Vision-

Peter pushes his mask up to wipe his face, tries to think about something, anything, else. (Too late, the names parade on, guilt in their wake. Maybe if he had helped things would have been different, maybe-)

God. How self-important can one person be? He’s just the friendly neighborhood Spiderman. 

That’s it. 

-

There’s a new Avenger, Mysterio, stronger than any of the others before. (Well, except maybe Thor. But Thor’s been gone since Thanos.) He’s the only superhero around, and fuck are they lucky that he’s strong enough to keep the world saved. 

Not like Peter, hiding in Queens-

Whatever. His small time stuff is going great. And his friends are doing well. Ned started dating Betty, which happily cut back on awkward savior talk that Ned seems to insist on for some reason, but did not cut back on Lego building time. (At least Ned’s priorities are still solid.) MJ’s been engaging in “colorful correspondence” with Princess Shuri of Wakanda, and Peter still doesn’t understand how they met. He _thinks_ they’re dating, but the last time he asked he got a complimentary speech on the heteronormative hegemonic structures of dating. 

He’s used to being the odd man out with the Spiderman stuff, it feels more acute like this though. Like he’s supposed to be dating someone by now, and maybe if Liz hadn’t moved he would be. Well. She did. (She’s probably in college now anyways, so it’s not like they would have been messing around now.)

Peter finishes up his loop of the city on autopilot, gets a churro for returning a woman’s pitbull puppy. It’s become common knowledge that Spiderman only accepts thank yous in dessert form, and he’s rather thankful for his quick metabolism. He swings up to the top of the library, plopping himself down and unwrapping the treat. The sun’s slowly setting, the world in a rosy glow, and yeah, things aren’t so bad at all. 

“I thought you’d be taller.” 

Peter jolts, churro falling to the ground as his head whips right to see that _Myserio is sitting next to him_. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m digging the whole uh, Spiderboy thing-” 

“Spiderman, uh sir, thank you.” 

The crystal ball dissolves away, revealing an unfairly attractive man, and Peter’s stomach swoops. Mysterio barks out a laugh, “Cute. Shit how old are you kid?”

He’s about to lie, and then he remembers his mask is half pushed up (that poor destroyed churro). “I’m not a kid, eighteen.” 

His blue eyes sparkle, and fuck, why does every single superhero ever have to be unfairly hot? It’s like the entire universe is laughing at his bisexual disaster self. 

“Spiderman,” he corrects, pronouncing the name slowly, and fuck, he could so get off on his voice alone. “I’m Quentin Beck.” 

He extends a gloved hand, and Peter instinctively takes it. “Nice to meet you, Mr.- um, Quentin.” 

Beck smiles at his slip, definitely knows he was trying to seem older by using his first name. “Usually you’d say your name now.” 

His cheeks flush, “Oh, I um, don’t tell people. Anyone I mean, not that I don’t trust you- heh, you saved the world, I just-” 

“It’s okay Peter,” he interrupts gamely. 

“Right- I wait! How do you know-?”

“You were listed in the Avengers’ files. I was watching some old footage and I saw your webs, very impressive.”

“O-oh, thank you.” 

“You can take the mask off if you want, it can’t be comfortable like that.” 

“Right,” Peter says, pulling it off. “Um, did you need something?” 

Quentin scratches the back of his neck, and Peter feels like a dick. “Not that you need a reason! I um, I’m just surprised. That you’re here. In Queens.”

Beck smiles ruefully, “I’ve been looking for heroes. So far, everyone left has retired. Not that I blame them. The world’s changed a lot in the past few years.”

“Yeah…” Peter drifts off.

Quentin clasps his shoulder briefly, warm metal echoing an almost forgotten moment. “I’ve been looking for others like us, a team is what the earth needs.” 

His cheeks heat up, “I um, I’m not really ready for like- I’m more the neighborhood type. Not world scale.” 

“That’s fine Peter, New York’s lucky to have you.” 

“Thank you sir,” he says, looking out to the city. Dusk came in when he wasn’t paying attention, deep purples and blues filling the sky. 

Beck stands up, looks more god than man at this angle, the last rays of light hinting at muscles beneath his suit. (Fuck, Peter needs to get laid.)

“If you change your mind, call me. It’s been a pleasure, Peter Parker.” 

Mysterio disappears in a puff of green smoke, a business card fluttering down into his hands. It has his name and number, and Peter exhales a giddy breath. Even if he isn’t going to use it, he has Mysterio’s phone number, feels like a fanboy all over again. 

(It takes a beat longer than usual for the thought to go sour, and Peter swings his way home.)

-

May gets sick the day after he graduates. Him and Ned and MJ were supposed to do a backpacking through Europe trip, their last vacation before being swamped with student debt forever. He convinces the other two to still go, there’s more tests than their insurance covers that the doctors want to run. Peter spends the next two days after that listening to them say in a dozen different ways that they don’t know what’s wrong with Aunt May. 

He’s sitting at home, trying not to feel how hollow it already is, when he remembers the business card. Peter runs to his room, nearly drops his phone as he pulls it out, quickly dialing. 

“Mr. Beck? Are you- I need you to come to Queens. Please my aunt-” 

“Peter?” 

He swallows, rubs his face. “Sorry, yes, it’s Peter. Peter Parker.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and he adds, “Please. They don’t know what’s wrong with her, but with your magic, I thought, can you help?” 

“Of course, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” 

Peter relaxes for the first time in days, nearly passes out before he can get to his bed. 

-

When Peter wakes up, it’s still dark out, but Quentin’s sitting at the foot of his bed dressed in casual clothes, and there’s a stone sinking in his stomach. His eyes flick to his phone, notifications blurring, the date crystal clear- he slept an entire day away. 

“Qu-Qu- Mr. Beck?” he says, a pathetic sniffle following. He could be wrong, he could be jumping to conclusions, he could be-

Quentin turns to him, eyes red. “I’m so sorry kid, I did everything I could. She’s gone.” 

Peter falls apart, tears streaming down his face. May’s last day and he was home, sleeping like a regular person instead of- she was all alone, all alone in the hospital. She’s- she’s really gone, her and Uncle Ben, and his parents, and-

Quentin’s arms wrap around him, and Peter selfishly holds on all the tighter. He doesn’t care if the world needs a hero tonight, they aren’t getting him. 

Peter cries long past when his eyes ache, until it feels like there is physically no more moisture in his face. He feels… hollow. Like the apartment before, and god, he knew, his Peter-tingle fucking knew and he didn’t do anything. He chokes on nothing, and the very air feels oppressive. He can’t- he can’t _be_ in here anymore. 

Swallowing, he looks up at Quentin, voice hoarse, “D’you still want to make a team?” 

“Oh Peter,” he says, stroking his cheek, finger brushing away a tear. “I think we both know you’re not ready for that.” 

The words slice through him, the truth crueler than it has any right to be. “Please,” he begs, “I can’t- I can’t stay here.” 

“Shh, I know. Close your eyes, when you open them you won’t have to worry anymore.” 

He closes his eyes easily, can’t take another second of the echoing emptiness. 

When Peter opens his eyes, it’s like he’s in a different world. A better world.

Nearly every surface is stainless steel, lined with sky blue, feels very futuristic. (Or perhaps like Quentin’s home universe.) They’re standing in the living room, simple and sleek, four silver couches without arms or backs and a glass table in the middle. There’s a hallway that wraps around out of sight, and the edge of a kitchen, and Quentin squeezes his shoulders. His hands feel so heavy and real, grounding in the best of ways.

“You alright kid?” 

“Y-yeah,” Peter says, and it’s almost true. It’s easier to breathe here, easier to not think about- god he’s a shit nephew. 

“You’re a terrible liar.” 

He tries to laugh, and it gets crinkled in a cough, eyes burning. 

Quentin sighs, the disappointment a shove in the gut. “Peter if you can’t be good, I’ll send you back.” 

“No! Please, I can- what do you want me to do? Anything, sir, please.” 

Beck tilts his head to the side, as if considering it. A tingle darts down his spine, and Peter _knows_ he’s being disingenuous. Which, of course he is, Quentin is a genius- he wouldn’t have brought Peter here without a plan. He’s just being nice about it. He must have a way to make him a better Spiderman, useful to the world-

“Kneel.” 

His eyes go wide and flick up, and he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse how calm Quentin looks. He arches an eyebrow, amused as if he thinks Peter won’t do it, and Peter drops down. 

Pain spikes up his knees, but it’s worth it for the surprise flashing over Beck’s face. “Good boy,” he murmurs, and _fuck_, it goes straight to his dick. Belatedly he realizes he’s in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, but he definitely fell asleep in jeans and- there’s a puff of purple dust, distracting him. 

Quentin’s fingers cup his jaw, feel like fire, his own heartbeat rushing in his ear. “Can you figure it out baby, or do I need to spell it out for you?” 

Peter’s cheeks burn, fingers fumbling as he undoes Quentin’s jeans. “I can- I can do this.” 

And he can. It’s so much easier just to focus everything on Quentin. On the rough feel of the denim beneath his palms, on the steady heartbeat so very close, on how warm Quentin is. Peter gets his pants and boxers down too quickly, hadn’t considered the logistics of the next part. It isn’t something he’s done before, but fuck does he want to.

“Shall I draw you a diagram?” Beck interrupts dryly. 

He leans forward, tentatively licking up his cock, and it isn’t unusual- simply tastes like skin. He licks again, tongue curling around the head, and heavy fingers weave through his hair. 

“Tease,” Quentin says, and then he’s thrusting into his mouth, holding his head steady, thrusting deeper down his throat. Quentin’s pulling his hair too hard, slamming into his mouth too deep- his eyes are wet, Peter’s pretty sure he’s drooling, breathing is difficult, his face must be a mess- yet throughout it all, there’s a heavy throb between his legs, his dick aching for attention. 

Peter doesn’t know how long it takes for Beck to come. All he knows is pain and want are etched into every inch of him. He swallows because it’s easier to breathe that way, and Quentin drags him up, petting his face. He leans into the touch, needs more, needs anything.

“Not bad for your first time baby. Lots of room to improve.” 

Peter whimpers, can’t help grinding forwards a bit, sudden relief in the friction, he’s so very close- 

Quentin’s hand comes down swift and hard against his ass, a chuckle in his ear. “Oh Peter, you haven’t earned that yet.”

Peter whines, can’t get words out, can’t think beyond his erection. 

“I know, I know baby. A little too much of the powder, I’ll dial it back next time. The more you know, heh. Can’t have you a mindless slut every day,” Quentin says with a laugh. 

It doesn’t make any sense, but Peter doesn’t care, he _needs_ to come. “Please, please Quentin.” 

He smiles, and hope bubbles up his chest so fast, Peter feels lightheaded. “Alright kiddo, I’ll tell you a story and if you can orgasm _while listening_ you can come as many times as you want. Touch yourself however. Okay?” 

“Oh, thank you, thank you. I’ll be good, I’ll be so good.” 

“I know baby.” Beck sits them both down on the nearest silver slab. It’s far comfier than it looks, and Peter holds his hand a hair’s breadth away from his dick, beyond ready for the story to begin. Quentin smiles wide, clearly reminiscing, and it takes everything Peter has not to beg him to start talking already. 

“It began a few years ago, you see I was developing a very special software…”


End file.
